


Soiree

by nymja



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, post Ruin & Rising
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which King Nikolai Lantsov cannot resist interfering with the lives of a married couple. For the greater good, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soiree

**Author's Note:**

> Needed a break from writing dark stuff, so here's a fluffy (and short) Malina fic!

The letter was penned in a dark blue ink, on a cream-colored piece of official stationary. It was folded into precise thirds, and placed into a stark white linen envelope. A twin-headed eagle, embedded in wax the exact shade of the ink, sealed it. The letter was carried by a singular coach, white with golden embellishments, which was driven by a singular footman and lead by a team of white stallions with pale blue plumage.

Mal was in the middle of reattaching a screen to the door when said, illustrious carriage made its way up the winding road to the front of Keramzin. He could almost hear a trumpet of…something, when the carriage stopped. The footman dismounted from his seat at the reins, hurriedly walked to the carriage, opened it, and removed a box.

Mal tightened the final bolt into place, and desperately wanted a drink. That desire did not fade as the footman carried the box—was it mahogany? It was probably mahogany—and ascended the few steps to where Mal patched a door.

Then he bowed.

“Is this Keramzin, residence of Duke Dmitri Dubrov?”

Mal did not remember ever becoming a Duke. Dukes didn’t reattach doors or get horrible, lopsided haircuts from their wives. He eyed the box, looking at its sides for a fuse. “I guess.”

The footman’s face did not ever stray from a morose, soulless mask. His fingers unfastened a bronze lock on the mahogany box, and opened it in the same way a jeweler would reveal a diamond necklace. The inside of the case was lined with dark blue velvet, and Mal slowly stood to take a better look.

And then wanted to head back inside.

There, inside the mahogany box, was a letter. With handwriting he knew all too well.

“Take it back,” he grumbled.

The footman’s eyebrows inched infinitesimally up at the slander, before he cleared his throat, “It is my honor to present an official correspondence from King Nikolai Lantsov, second of his name-“

“Take it back.” He repeated.

“-Grand Duke of Udova-“

Mal sighed, “You don’t have to-“

“-Commander of the United Armies-“

“-go through all the-“

“-Leader of the Entrepreneurial Guilds-“

“-titles-“

“-Sovereign of Ravka-“

“-we’ll be here all day-“

“-Noted Fashion Designer-“

Mal rolled his eyes, “Just give me the letter.”

The footman’s eyebrows went even more north, before he bowed while bowing, “At your request, your Grace.”

Mal looked at the footman, then the box, then the letter. And delicately grabbed the letter with his thumb and forefinger. At the paling of the footman’s face, he imagined he was supposed to perform a curtsey or something. “Thanks.” He tried to smile, “Your…”

The footman stared at him.

Mal cleared his throat, and bowed his head, “…Post. Manship”

Unsure of what else to do, Mal dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of Misha’s favorite candy. Awkwardly, he put it in the box, and patted the footman’s shoulder. When the footman didn’t move, Mal cleared his throat, “…Thanks.”

The footman stared blankly.

“For the letter.”

And continued to stare.

“Drive…safe.”

Mal turned, walking back to the door of orphanage, sending one last, unsure look over his shoulder where the footman still stood at attention, before shaking his head and entering his home.

“Did I hear a carriage?” Came the sound of his wife’s voice from further down the hall, and Mal automatically walked towards it. The linen envelop weighed like a brick in his hands. He turned a corner into the dining room, and was not surprised to see Alina sitting on the floor, surrounded by bits of what were once presumably table legs.

Mal frowned, “Weren’t you just adding a leaf to the table?”

“Yes.” The irritation in Alina’s eyes dared him to argue that she was doing differently.

He smiled and bent down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sure there’s easier ways to do it.”

“I’m sure there’s less dangerous things to say to a woman with a hammer,” her eyes moved from his face to his hands, which were currently fidgeting with the letter, “What’s that.”

“Correspondence from King Nikolai Lantsov, Noted Fashion Designer.”

Alina frowned, “…He signed it that?”

“Yes, why?”

“Normally he sends me post with an alias.”

Mal sent her a sidelong look, not sure what to make of his wife’s secret penpal before he flipped the letter over, “Then I imagine I better read this.”

“Or we can burn it.”

He smirked, “It’s probably a hanging offense to burn the King’s stationary.”

Without another word, he tore at the wax seal with the nail of his pinkie. And then the layer of wax underneath it. Finally, the letter slid out:

_My Dearest Cousin Dmitri Dubrov,_

_I am writing to express my incomparable sorrow at the time which has inexcusably passed since Os Alta last hosted you. As you no doubt share my remorse, as dearest cousins are want to do, I cordially invite you to attend the winter season in the halls of the Grand Palace. It is a most **urgent** request, as I find myself in a desperate need for sociable company._

_Yours, in highest and most sovereign, and therefore inarguable, esteem,_

_King Nikolai Lantsov, Grand Duke of Udova, Commander of the United Armies, Noted Entrepreneur, Devilishly Handsome Inspiration for Several Marble Busts, and Exceedingly Accomplished Master of both Naval Exploits of Questionable Legality, and the Ravkan Boxed-Step Waltz. Boot size 12._

_Post Script: I have a great and equally urgent desire to formally meet your new wife and adopted son. Perhaps your visitation is the perfect opportunity for their court debuts?_

Mal stared.

And stared.

And folded the letter back into its perfect thirds as quickly as he could. “…I hate royals.”

Alina looked up once more from the destruction of furniture, hammer in her hand and a pinched quality to her features, “…So it _is_ from Nikolai?”

“Unless there’s another inspiration for marble busts running around.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Alina hesitantly started to hammer in nails again, “…What’s he want.”

“Allegedly to attend a season. Whatever that means.”

Mal extended his wife the letter, tucked in between his first two fingers. Alina sent him a skeptical look before she put some nails behind her ear and grabbed it. He watched her face fall deeper and deeper into annoyance as she read the invitation.

“…he hand wrote everything but the signature.”

“Yes.”

“Which was stamped.”

“Yes. In gold.”

“…why his boot size.”

Mal ran a hand through his hair, before he took a crouch down beside the destroyed remnants of what was once a perfectly good dining room table, “This is the price we pay for friends in high places.”

Alina scowled, and hammered a nail in to the table with more force than necessary, “We should’ve found another emerald.”

“I thought you liked balls?”

The poisonous look she sends him is punctuated with a nail piercing straight through three inches of solid oak, “…we’re not going.”

Mal’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “We’re not?”

Alina shook her head. “No. I’ve got a table to fix,” Mal bit down on his lip to keep his mouth from speaking. She was still holding a hammer, “Plumbing to winterize, and Misha’s behind in his maths.”

Mal sat next to her, and discretely rearranged the legs of the table to their correct spots, “He did make me a Duke.”

“…You’re Duke Dmitri Dubrov.”

“Yes.”

“Then am I a Duchess?”

“I think that’s how these things usually work.”

His wife sighed, hammering another nail in crooked, “We’re not going. Trips to Os Alta never end well.”

Mal leaned forward and kissed her, “Alright. Then we won’t go.”

\--

An hour later, Mal walked out of the front door to Keramzin to see the footman still in place. His eyes widened.

“…why are you still here.”

The footman’s face was grave as ever, “I have been ordered by King Nikolai Lantsov, second of his name-“

Mal sighed, and leaned against the door until he was done.

“-to not abandon my post until I have received a favorable response from you, your Grace.”

“Favorable how.”

“An acceptance to his Majesty the King’s most gracious invitation.”

“And if we refuse?”

The footman looked, for the first time, distinctly uncomfortable, “…then I believe his Majesty the King has arranged for an increasing amount of carriages to arrive within a fortnight.”

A fortnight. The amount of time it would take them to get to Os Alta if they left tomorrow by carriage.

Mal glared at the horses with their ridiculously tall feathers, “…And the carriage behind you?”

“Your escort, your Grace.”

Mal hit the back of his head against the wall.

Alina wasn’t going to be happy about this.

\--

“I’m not happy about this,” his wife grumbled as she threw her bag into the carriage. Misha stood beside her, trying and failing to hide his smirk as he put his own luggage in more delicately after her.

“Think of it like a vacation.”

“He arranged a platoon of carriages to assault us with stationary if we refused.”

Mal offered her his hand as she stepped in to the carriage. She begrudgingly took it, “You like platoons.”

“I like refusing more.”

“ _I_ like Os Alta,” Misha contributed, and Alina sent him a look of pure betrayal.

“No you don’t.”

“Sure I do. There’s a big library there-“ Mal picked Misha up and lifted him in, “-way bigger than ours.”

Alina scowled, “We can get more books.”

“And there’s an armory-“

“We can get an armory.”

Mal shook his head, and closed the carriage door behind him when he entered the cab. He took a seat next to Alina and patted her hand, “We’ll ask him for another emerald.”

His wife sent him a hesitant smirk, as she tucked the last pieces of her newly-dyed black hair into her hat, “…You know this is a scheme. We’d better ask for diamonds.”

Misha absently kicked his short legs back and forth, “And a library?”

“And a library.”

“With an armory attached?”

Mal laughed, ruffling his hair, “You are officially in charge of our demands.”

Alina sighed, looking at Mal once more. Her next words were more heavily measured, “…You already know he wants us to pretend to be royals.”

“I gathered with the new title.”

“And if he’s claiming you as a long-lost cousin…”

Mal squeezed her hand, “Don’t worry, _zhenka._ I won’t leave you to the squalor of peasant life for the grandeur and intrigue of court.”

“You’d better not,” Alina slouched in her seat as the carriage began to move, arms crossed over her chest. A yawn escaped her lips, “You’d look terrible wearing a crown. Head’s too square.”

Misha nodded in solemn agreement.

Mal smirked, but the comment reminded him sharply of the fact that Alina could have, very easily, had a crown herself a few years ago. He took a deep breath, looking out the window and seeing Keramzin become a smaller and smaller figure in the distance.

…What sort of game was Nikolai really playing?


End file.
